


The Weight of Us

by theaa



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (I want to protect Sansa), (sort of), Aka I very tenuously force them together for REASONS, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Past Rape/Non-con, R plus L equals J, Set after 6x09 in the show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 05:59:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7255309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theaa/pseuds/theaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ramsay is dead. Winterfell is theirs. But Littlefinger is owed a debt and he wants Sansa in return. The price of war is high, but Jon will do anything to stop from losing Sansa again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weight of Us

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't poke too far into the politics of this fic, I just wanted to force the two of them together. If you ask me the only thing to do with Baelish in the show now is to kill him, he's far too dangerous. But for now and for this fic we'll keep him alive. Spoliers for 6x09. Unbetaed so please forgive mistakes. 
> 
> Title taken from the song by Sanders Bohike.

Ramsay is dead. Direwolf banners hang from the castle walls. Outside, blood is being scrubbed from where it stains the ground. Funeral pyres are arranged. Bodies are burnt. The clean up is underway.

Inside Winterfell, in the council chamber Jon had seen his Lord father use so very long ago, Jon sits. There is still blood and dirt under his fingernails. Ser Davos’ footsteps echo as he retreats down the hall. And then there is silence. Now that he is alone, Jon lets his head fall forward, his eyes slip close. He expects his mind to conjure up images of the battle - he is used to replaying the horror of war behind his eyes - but instead he sees only a deep rich shade of red, soaking everything, trickling into every corner of his mind. Jon think this is worse. You can desensitise yourself to violence, if you’re are exposed long enough, if you try hard enough. But this is different. He feels like he’s bathing in it, bathing in every single drop of blood spilled, enemy and friend. His own blood, Ramsey’s, Rickon’s.

There is a sharp knock on the door and Jon’s eyes spring open. The red retreats to the edges of his vision, and Sansa stands in the doorway.

‘May I come in?’

Hours ago she had watched as hounds tore Ramsay Bolton to pieces. Now her hands are clasped in front of her, almost demurely. Her red hair has been rebraided, soft and loose in a single plait. Sansa looks like a harmless lady, but Jon hesitates in answering. Sansa doesn’t scare him, he knows they are fighting this together, but as much as he tries not to, he mistrusts her. Her appearance is deceiving, and Jon knows not what goes on behind her piercingly blue eyes.

It is Sansa’s banners that hang outside his window. It should be her in this seat, and him in the doorway. She is far better at playing this game than he is.

He rises from his chair wearily to meet her. ‘Yes, Lady Stark.’

Her full title slips out and something shifts behind her eyes. She steps inside and closes the door behind her. It shuts with a groan.

‘You’re angry with me,” she says, her voice flat.

'No. I could never be angry with you,’

‘Yes, you are. You’re angry I didn’t tell you about Littlefinger’s army.’

Jon scrubs a hand over his face. ‘Littlefinger’s army saved mine and many other’s lives. I have no right to be angry,’ he says simply.

‘But you still are.’ She moves further into the room, her heavy northern gown sweeping across the flagstones. ‘I won’t apologise, you know.’ Her voice is clear as a bell. Forceful and assured. Jon wonders how the sister he knew, silly and simpering and fond of pretty things, turned into the formidable woman stood in front of him. Even her hair seems to burn brighter now, startling against the dourness of her dress. _Kissed by fire_ , he thinks. Indeed.

‘I dare say you won’t,' he says simply.

‘Jon, we need to talk about this.’

Jon sighs, he can not help himself. His limbs are tired and achy. All adrenalin has now faded and he feels an exhaustion creeping up on him the likes he has never known. ‘Not now, Sansa, please. We have won, that is enough.’

‘You’re not happy, though.’ It’s not a question, but a statement, and Jon shakes his head.

‘Wars are not happy occurrences.’

‘That’s not what I’m talking about!’ Frustration creeps into her voice. If stamping her foot were not so unladylike, Jon thinks she may have done it.

‘You don’t understand. I didn’t want to use Petyr’s army, but you were so outnumbered! I wasn’t even sure they would come.’

‘I am glad they did,’ he says calmly and Sansa’s eyes flash.

‘Stop placating me!’

Tendrils of the anger he has tried to push down spark at Sansa’s shout.

‘What do you want me to say, Sansa? Thousands of men died today when perhaps they could have been saved - if you had just told me about Petyr’s army. _Gods_ , Sansa, why did you keep it to yourself?’

‘You wouldn’t have liked it! You might have refused!’

‘We needed all the men we could get! Why would I have refused?’’

‘You would, you know you would! You hate Littlefinger and you wouldn’t have wanted his men or any bargain that came with them, and you would have told him so and then you would have died Jon! You would have _died_ out there with no one else left to save you. I was clever! I made sure Petyr would still fight for me and that you had no chance to offend him! And beyond that I made sure that when Ramsey thought he had won, when he was easy for the taking, I cut him down. I saved your life!’

‘And now what?’ Jon tries to keep his voice in control, but it's cracked and shuddering and too loud. ‘Now Littlefinger sits with my life and yours and hundreds of others in his hands. We all owe him a debt. You may be Lady of Winterfell and Queen in the North, Sansa, but Littlefinger has power over all of us! Sansa _he sold you to Ramsay_ , and you’ve given him back power!’

Sansa blinks. He thinks he sees the sparkle of tears, but in a second they are gone. He feels guilty immediately, but nothing of what he is saying is untrue. The whole thing is a mess that makes his head pound. He turns away from her. Outside the darkening sky is burnt orange from the funeral flames. He turns back around again, unwilling to focus on that either.

‘I did what I thought was right, Jon. What we needed to survive.’

Jon nods. She did. He understands her motives, but it does not mean he likes the outcome any more. Sansa seems to recognise her dismissal but she lingers a moment longer.

‘It wouldn’t have made a difference, you know. Rickon was already lost. There was no way Ramsey was going to let him live.’

Again, Jon knows that she is right, but the memory of his outstretched arm, Rickon so close he could see the terror on his face - it burns. The pain and the sense of failure engulfs him again.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Lady Stark.’

Sansa bows her head and leaves. Her quiet footsteps do not echo on her way out. It is fitting, he thinks. She is quiet and stealthy, and her strength relies on other’s perception that she has none. Jon has huge admiration for his sister, would do anything to protect her if she’d let him, loves her even. He is just not sure if he likes her any longer.

 

xxx

 

The next day he sleeps late. He does not mean to, but no one comes to wake him and he rises blearily to find the sun is already up. In the clear light of day the destruction outside of Winterfell looks even worse. Charred funeral pyres still smoke up into the sky.

Jon forces himself to bathe and dress in front of the window, forces himself to acknowledge the loss that their victory has caused.

When he reaches the Great Hall he finds Tormund and Davos already sat. Sansa sits to Davos’ right and to his disgust Petyr Baelish sits next to her. Jon has to stop himself from walking straight back out again. Jon eyes him warily when he sits down.

They talk of rallying the northern bannermen back to the Stark name, of securing the service of any house which had defected to House Bolton. They talk of those they must punish, and how they will do so. Through it all Littlefinger sits with his hands steepled in front of him. He says next to nothing, which surprises Jon, and should make it easier to pretend that he is not there. But his lack of interjection sets Jon on edge, certain that Baelish is scheming some outrageous demand and just biding his time in delivering it.

When the council is over Jon returns to his chambers, the room he used to sleep in when he was a boy. The room feels foreign now, colder than in his childhood. He dismisses a small boy who is suddenly acting as his manservant, and wonders where he was magicked from. He needs to see to the last of his men, gather their weapons and armour back, see to what was discussed earlier, but he thinks he will visit the Godswood first. He is not sure if he believes in the Old Gods any longer - he is not sure he believes is anything any longer, but the place is a comfort to him, small thought it may be.

There’s a quiet knock on the door and Sansa slips inside. ‘I see you’ve disposed of your servant.’ she says wryly, by way of introduction.

Jon raises his eyebrow. Of course this was Sansa’s doing. ‘I don’t need anyone serving me.’

‘I know that. I only thought he might help. His sister is going to help me with my hair and dressing. I’m trying to build a relationship with the smallfolk, Hiring them as maids and servants and stewards again is just part of that. Will you call him back?’

Jon stares at her. Everything she did these days was political. ‘Aye.’ She looks appeased.

‘I’ve found out what Petyr wants. He wishes to marry me.’

She says it so calmly. Jon pushes himself off his bed and staggers towards her, his heart dropping to his boots. He’d expected something like this, but even the thought of it makes his blood roar.

‘No. I’m not going to let that happen. I’m not letting you be sold off again against your will. I won’t. He’s not going to touch you.’ Jon’s snarling now, but Sansa has a small sad smile on her face.

‘Jon, don’t. You said so yourself yesterday, we owe him, This is what he wants. I am what he wants. He said so to me this morning in the Godswood. If I were to marry him, he’d let me stay at Winterfell and be Queen. He’d rule by my side, but he wouldn’t contest me. If I were to marry him I’d have control of the Eyrie too. He couldn’t have my mother so now he wants me. The terms are more than we could have hoped for. It makes sense. I’m going to let him,' she says firmly.

‘No, Sansa don’t be absurd! Think about what you’re saying!’

‘I am, Jon. And that’s why I’m saying yes.’

'Sansa you don’t have to marry, or you can marry someone else. Surely -’

‘Staying unmarried would leave my position vulnerable. I’d bear no heirs for Winterfell and the Stark line would die with me. And if I were to marry someone else doubtless they’d contest my claim or remove me from Winterfell altogether to bear them children for some other Noble house. If you think about it, really this is the best option available.’

Jon’s mouth snaps shut. As usual, Sansa is talking far too much sense. ‘Have you told him your answer?’

‘No, of course not. I said nothing. I wish to leave him in anticipation - let him remember the power I have, too.’

‘Good. Don’t,’ Jon says shortly.

‘But Jon… I’ll have to agree to the betrothal sooner or later.’

‘No.’ He will not have Sansa under that man’s thumb, no matter what promises she believes she’s getting in return. No woman deserves to be trapped in a loveless, manipulative marriage, especially not Sansa. 'Promise me you will say nothing to Baelish until we’ve talked about this further.’

Jon sweeps up his cloak from where it sits folded on a chair and eyes her steadily. ‘Promise me, Sansa.’

She frowns but acquiesces. ‘I promise.’

‘Good. Now excuse me, My Lady.’ He moves towards the door, and Sansa’s hand on his arm stops him.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To pray,’ he tells her, and it isn’t a lie.

 

xxx

 

‘Lord Snow, your sisters hand is a difficult issue, there is no denying.’

Jon had sought out Davos’ counsel regarding Sansa, and though the Onion Knight had tried to help, instead Jon’s head was throbbing once more. He kept on picturing Littlefinger’s leering face. Sansa on their wedding night and Baelish's triumphant twisted expression as he took Sansa in their wedding bed. Jon would sooner cut off Baelish’s every digit before he let the man touch Sansa, but so far Davos had been unable to offer any other alternatives. After a while Jon leaves in frustration and goes to find her again. She’s alone in her chamber save for a young girl Jon takes is her new maid.

‘Thank you Lucy. Leave me now.’ The girl hurries away.

Even though Sansa gestures towards a chair Jon stays standing.

‘I won’t let him touch you. I mean what I said before the battle, Sansa. I won’t let anyone touch you ever again.’

Before when he’d said that Sansa’s jaw had clenched. Now she just rolls her eyes.

‘I will let him touch me the bare minimum until I have a child. Then he will touch me no longer.and I will have an heir. You can’t protect me Jon. No one can. This is what I must do.’

She is frighteningly cold and calculating, detached even as she says the words and Jon shudders, at both her and the horror of it all. Sansa goes back to plaiting and replaiting her hair in the mirror. Jon, angry, exasperated and at a loss of what to do, storms away.

Hours later Davos seeks him out. The Onion Knight seems drawn, his wrinkled skin grey in colour as he greets Jon.

‘I have thought about Lady Sansa’s and your predicament, My Lord.’

Jon rifles a hand through his hair, tangled and wild through lack of care. ‘Well?’

Ser Davos looks apprehensive. ‘I am afraid you are not going to like it, My Lord.’

Jon frowns. He would like anything more than handing Sansa over to yet another monster. ‘Tell it to me anyways.’

“I were thinking that perhaps Littlefinger would not want Sansa if he knew someone else already had her.’

‘He knows Sansa is no maiden fair. Ramsay saw to that.’ He picks up a small knife, used to open letters, and embeds it into the desk as he says Ramsay’s name, Davos doesn’t flinch. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Lord Snow, I am saying that if Littlefinger thought that Lady Sansa was with child, perhaps he would not want her.’

‘You mean lie? Pretend Sansa has a bastard in her belly from some nameless squire, is that it? Baelish would not be dissuaded - you’ve seen the way he hovers over her. He’d simply claim the babe as his own legitimate child once they were married. Or worse, plan to dispose of it.’

Ser Davos nods tightly. ‘I know my Lord, but if he heard certain rumours…’

Jon wrenches the knife out of the table again in annoyance. ‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Ser Davos.’ Jon could see the old knight struggling now, trying to put his words together.

‘What if Sansa’s babe was sired by someone powerful, enough to make Baelish apprehensive. What if he thought marrying Sansa would mean to be involved in sin and be not a help to his bid for power, but a hindrance?’

‘Make Sansa undesirable? But she’s Queen in the North! He will want her whatever.’

Ser Davos closes his eyes and seems to summon strength.

‘My Lord, love between a brother and sister is not unheard of. Unspoken of yes, but not unheard of. Think of the Lannisters, ugly though their love may be, the Targaryens before them, who married siblings as was common practice. Such love still happens. It would, I suggest, be almost natural that half siblings separated for so many years, each now a man and woman grown, who have faced the unimaginable together and apart, should seek comfort in each other.’

The knife drops to the floor, loose from Jon’s fingers. The clang of metal hitting stone echoes around the chamber. Jon’s mouth goes dry. When he does not speak, Davos goes on.

'If it were rumoured that on the long nights before the battle you and Lady Sansa had shared a tent and much more, that there was a babe starting to grow in her stomach, sired by you, perhaps he would not be so keen. Such a child would be a product of incest in his eyes, and damnable by the Gods. If it got out that you were the father, her name would be besmirched. House Stark would look vulnerable. He would not want to marry into it.’

Jon was stunned into silence for near a minute before he spoke. ‘That is a lot of ‘ifs’ Ser Davos.’

He nodded. ‘It is the only plan I’ve got.’

‘And what of Sansa? She is not pregnant, of course.’

‘No, but there are ways to fake a pregnancy, to make Baelish believe the lie. He is the only one who should believe it, however. Once he retracts his claim, we wait until the rumours die down. No child emerges of course. Sansa will be free for a little while longer to find a husband elsewhere.’

‘This plan is mad.’

‘Absolutely. Are you willing, for Sansa’s sake?’

Perhaps he did not really think it through, but Jon only saw a possible escape for his sister. ‘I’ll talk to her. I doubt she will agree but I’ll talk to her.’


End file.
